Soodabeh lives in Queens, NYC. She writes in English and Farsi. Her English poems have been published in different anthologies and literary magazines including Careless Embrace of the Boneshaker (GWFM) Squawk Back, Indiana Voice Journal, Sick Lit Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review, etc. She has authored and edited both scientific and poetry collections. Her most recent book, Where Are You From, is a bilingual anthology gathered from 61 poets. Her micro-poems are daily updating on her Twitter @SSaeidnia. A number of her poems are routinely posted through her weblog https://soodabehpoems.wordpress.com/ and Facebookhttps://www.facebook.com/soodabeh.saeidnia.
There hasn't been a day for me without being asked where I am from,
since the day I dragged my broken-wheel luggage in JFK. The Uber driver -
with an Indian accent – had questioned where I am from before I told him my destination.
I still don't know how to explain without confusing people.
I'm not white enough to look American, can't speak Spanish to be Latino,
don't wear scarf to be a Middle Eastern, not black, nor Asian.
I responded to the custom officer, "You know, for sure, where Iraq
and Afghanistan are located on the map," and while he's nodding
his bald brown head, I whispered, “My motherland is somewhere in between.”
When I realized he hadn’t been convinced, I added, "If you watch History channel,
you may know there once was a meeting between Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin
in 1943." Then, I turned my voice louder, "That conference was in my country Sir."
When I saw him to be impressed by my knowledge, I hummed,
“President Jimmy Carter once had a toast with Shah in there.” Then,
I stopped story-telling. His almond-eyes fellow said “Anything to declare
with your baggage?” I said no and bitterly smiled knowing that I brought painkillers
to relieve the war backache, band aids to cover my unsecured wounds,
ices to cool the burns of ceasefire, and so many books of banned poetry.
I swallowed my fears. “When I was born, my nationality wasn’t
an executive crime Sir, otherwise my parents didn’t decide to bring
a pre-born guilty baby.” This was never came out of my dried mouth.
that people like your lines.
Why? Test it!
Separate me from
they'll be hollow,
Who am I?
Ah... forget about it!
I am the core,
And the sand castles
Dreaming to go
How unfortunate would be
a beautiful little poem,
composed by an old poet
who forgot to save it
on the computer
and his Alzheimeric mind!
The Statue of Liberty
by the tower of idiocy
We were great sailors
until we counted on winds
and a careless crosswind
swept our dreams